


if you wanna break these walls down, you're gonna get bruised

by song_of_staying



Category: The Lost Prince - Frances Hodgson Burnett
Genre: Community: hc_bingo, Dungeon, Future Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-27
Updated: 2016-06-27
Packaged: 2018-07-18 16:27:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7322413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/song_of_staying/pseuds/song_of_staying
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, chained as he is in the freezing dark, Jem Ratcliffe does not call to anyone. Instead, he screams, fierce and relentless, and prepares to die as a Rat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	if you wanna break these walls down, you're gonna get bruised

Jem Ratcliffe has learned to be careful with names.

Marco will always stay Marco; there is nothing Jem Ratcliffe can do about that small, internal treason, except to save it for his very last breath. Sir is Sir, and does not belong in dark, damp places. God has lost whatever face and name he'd had in England, becoming at one with Thought and Law, and neither Thought nor Law are of use now. Jem Ratcliffe's father is to stay unnamed and unremembered - even a decade of life with Loristans has not taught Jem Ratcliffe how to be gracious.

So, chained as he is in the freezing dark, Jem Ratcliffe does not call to anyone. Instead, he screams, fierce and relentless, and prepares to die as a Rat.

* * *

There are twelve winding staircases down to Glorian's dungeons; Marco is on the third landing when he hears the screaming.

He looks for clarity, for the courage found in reason, but all he can find is a cold, flat dread. He runs.

The Rat has been here for four days. It is certain that the Rat can live without food for that long - he has done it before - and the darkness itself cannot hurt him. Has he lost his composure to the solitude? Even as a child, the Rat had sought out the company of others; he had risked pain and humiliation but would not stop following soldiers, shopkeepers, children, any riffraff he could keep up with.

The Rat doesn't _like_ people, particularly - even now, he dislikes most of Marco's subjects - but he has a need to know where they are going, and why they are angry, and what they most wish for. This makes him indispensable as an aide-de-camp, and makes him the best possible target for interrogation.

And so Marco faces the other, likelier possibility: that the Rat is yelling because he is being tortured. That the Rat had paid in blood for every moment Marco had wasted – by being lazy and comfortable, by being inattentive and cowardly, by refusing to admit that his friend had been taken against his will.

Aimlessly, Marco prays: that the Rat has not talked and yet somehow managed to avoid pain; or that he has talked but was somehow not executed. Marco prays for any illogical outcome.

The door to the last cell is open.

There is a small bundle in the corner of the cell, impossible to see clearly in the flickering light from the hallway. Marco kneels beside it, hoping choking down any words he could form.

There is blood on the Rat, scars on the sides of his chest and smeared across his face. His chest is moving, too-fast but steady.

Marco wraps his friend in his own sable coat, cradles his dear head gently, and checks for a fever. The Rat is cold, his lips are blue and scabbed over and over. His clever, scarred hands are frozen in fists. He smells of decay, and Marco wants to run, wants to kill everyone who had taken part in this - to kill them himself, with nothing trial or diplomacy. Only pure justice.

He stays, and caresses the Rat's hair, bends down to kiss his brow. An old-fashioned greeting, an intimacy he'd not allowed himself before.

The Rat's eyes flicker open, and he breathes, "Prince Ivor," and "you've been betrayed".

The door to the cell swings shut.

* * *

As a boy, the Rat dreamed of a magic that would allow soldiers (and others, but soldiers were all he'd cared about then) to learn how to talk among themselves, using only their thoughts. Even before he'd met Stefan Loristan, the human mind had seemed wonderful to him, and capable of such a feat. 

Now, Jem can only hope that Marco will understand, without being told, what Jem needs him to do.

"What is the meaning of this?" Marco calls out, returning Jem carefully to the floor. "Open the door!"

Nobody answers him, and then the lights in the hallway die out.

In the dark, Jem reaches out. In the dark, Marco grasps his hand. There is no conversation between them – and it's exhilarating. It is clear that Marco understands: silence is now the order.

Jem squeezes his hand, first with deliberate lightness. Marco responds, just as soft, pressing his wide palm to the tips of Jem's fingers. Then his thumb finds Jem's wrist, draws spirals across his pulse line.

But the Rat has a strategy. Without warning, he grabs Marco's hand and twists, as hard as he can without causing injury. He acknowledges Marco's soft, bitten-off whimper. The message was received.

Marco pulls back from him. The Rat closes his eyes and does his very best to look powerless. If he understands anything about his captor - and he must do, otherwise they're lost - they will not have too long to wait.

* * *

 

"Lord Glorian." Marco keeps his voice even, and keeps his gaze on the familiar, narrow face. "I was told you were in Vienna."

"Loristan. I have returned early just to greet you. I would take you to meet some guests."

Marco doesn't respond to that opening, but merely watches. Glorian's smile widens and he leans forward, overly-familiar.

"There are a few Habsburg delegates, and quite a few of your own kingdom's representatives. Not everyone has been pleased with your rule."

"Is this a putsch?" He hears the Rat make a small noise, and shifts very slightly to put himself between Glorian and his friend. "Should I fear for my life?"

"No," Glorian says. "No, you are quite safe. Many of my associates have been - indoctrinated - to the charms of your monarchy. It saddens me when powerful people give in to sentiment." He shrugs, as though he did not himself serve the royal house of another land. "The plan is merely to acquaint you with our organisation, and present you with some of the consequences that a headstrong ruler might face."

"Which consequences?" But immediately, Marco realises the answer. It takes all his willpower not to move, not to jump at this man and choke the life out of his lungs.

Glorian saunters over to the Rat. Sloppily, he kicks at his side. The Rat groans. "We understand this gentleman is your particular friend." 

Marco laughs, and bites into his own cheek with enough force to draw blood.

"That wretch?" he yells. "That Rat? I am afraid your organisation is as misinformed as it is arrogant. I would like nothing better than to be rid of him."

For the first time, Glorian's smile falters - a moment, but enough to reassure Marco of the Rat's plan.

"Am I to believe that the great son of Stefan Loristan does not care about his aide-de-camp?"

"You would have had better luck kidnapping my washer-woman," he says, letting his voice go heavy with the contempt that he feels for this petty villain. "At least her work benefits me more than it does me harm."

Glorian kneels beside the Rat, and smiles up at Marco, disbelieving.

"It is such a beautiful story," he says, in a tone of contemplation, slams the Rat's head against the floor. Marco does not move. "Two boys, Bearers of the Light, effectively ruling Samavia together."

"It was never like that," Marco says. He shifts closer, with the air of an embarrassed boy about to divulge a confidence. "He saved me once, from a rabid dog, on the streets of London. I owed him my life. I had promised to give him a position of his choosing after we returned to Samavia. I did not expect his hubris in taking such an influential position." He is speaking softly, warmly, drawing Glorian's attention to himself. "I should have had him thrown out to the streets, instead of honoring a childhood promise. I believe you are right - powerful men get quite entrapped by sentiment."

Marco knows that such a man would be too entranced by the words 'you are right'  to stay vigilant. The Rat jumps up and topples Glorian to the floor, holds him down with strong hands, bites into his cheek. Marco dives for Glorian's sword, and stands up in time to meet the guards bursting into the dungeon.

They were under orders not to kill him, but they charge relentlessly. Marco takes a pistol from one of them, a short blade from another. He feels as though he's standing in a whirlpool, meeting each of them as their number keeps growing, no time to observe, no time to do anything but fight.

There are curses behind him, and noises of flesh hitting flesh. If he turns, he will be taken - there's no time to check if there is still a reason to keep fighting at all.

"Fools," the Rat yells at last, his voice distinctive enough to be heard over the grunts and clangs of battle. "None of you can harm him; he is Prince Ivor. He is so much more than a man."

The guards falter, and Marco strikes at them, advances to the door. In this moment, he _is_ more than a man. He hopes Glorian is alive and watching; at the same time, he hopes that the Rat had killed him.

One by one, the guards turn and flee. The corridor is empty now, light still flickering, and Marco finally drops his sword. Drops to his knees.

"Is he alive?"

"He's not conscious," the Rat responds, sitting surely on Glorian's chest. "I didn't tear his throat out. Do you think I should have done?"

 _Yes_ , Marco thinks. "I think you should do what you will."

His friend smiles at him, a red line on a bone-pale face. "I will see him hanged," he says. "Do you think you can carry us both? They have taken my crutches. Perhaps you should take him first, and return for me. There might be some guards waiting to trap you. They seem like a stupid lot, prone to heroics." 

"I will carry you," Marco says. "He can stay here and rot. I will send for him - later."

The Rat takes the key from Glorian's belt, and allows himself to be helped upright.

"Please do turn the light off," he says, as Marco locks the door behind them. 

* * *

There are a hundred candles around Jem Ratcliffe's bed. Tonight, he has them all lit. He lies back, comfortable and clean, and admires the dance of tiny flames.

"I know it's a waste," he says to Marco, who does not meet his eyes. "But I find ways to make up for it in the accounts."

Marco sits on his bedside. He still looks distant, odd, but his lips shape into a smile. "You needn't do your own accounts, on top of everything else you do."

"I like knowing my own expenses - and yours as well. It is important to stay aware of things."

There is no warm response coming, merely a stillness that Jem Ratcliffe doesn't understand. 

"I - my prince," he says. "I must apologise. Glorian lured me in - I knew, of course, that he was a danger, and still I let myself be lured. I thought I would learn something that would be of use to use."

"Well," Marco says. "And so we did."

The void in his voice is unbearable, and the Rat twitches. "I don't advise a public reprimand," he says through clenched teeth, "as it would reveal all the staggering mistakes we'd made with your security - but if you wish to penalise me - and everyone else whose incompetence lead to what had happened - we can arrange for it."

The prince looks at him now, the candles reflected in his eyes.

"You saved me," he says softly. "Three times tonight. First with your brilliance - I had no plan, I had no inclination to even think of one, since I had you. Then with your strength. And then with your generosity. I fear -" he looks away again, hands perfectly still in his lap. "I fear of what I would have done without you."

"Well, we already knew you owe me a life debt!" The words are light, and he regrets them immediately - whatever this is, it is truly bothering Marco, who does not deserve his levity, nor his rage.

Marco leans forward and catches his chin with soft fingers. "I don't know how to show you," he says, in a voice that is almost a whine, almost a plea. "I apologise."

He kisses Jem's temple, his cheek, his nose. He kisses below Jem's mouth and above it. He would draw back but Jem doesn't let him.

"What is this," Jem asks, holding him in place.

"You are my best friend," Marco says, and falls lightly against his chest. "My light, my - dear, my precious Jem." His lovely dark skin blushes. "Should I give you my crown, I would still be in your debt."

Jem Ratcliffe is a faithful subject to his prince; his catches the treason with his lips, and does not allow it to escape.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to bigsunglasses for the beta, and egelantier for the encouragement! Written for my hc_bingo prompt: dungeons.
> 
> Title is from Castle - Halsey, which is an extremely fitting song for this canon. Though actually, pretty much all of Halsey's songs are fitting: there's the same kind of rage and unabashed romanticism!


End file.
